


to the depth and breadth and height

by Sunshineditty



Series: Sonnet 43 [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Drabble, F/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 23:47:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3187823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunshineditty/pseuds/Sunshineditty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fighting against the temptation of Lyrium is easier than keeping himself chaste.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to the depth and breadth and height

He knows the strength of his own body, the trueness of his aim.  
  
What he doesn’t know is how to love. _Be_ loved.  
  
Love isn’t exactly something the Chantry teaches, nor the Order. Love of anything less than the Maker, that is. The Maker is the end all, be all of existence; or should be for the faithful.  
  
Cullen considers himself an Andrastian and a faithful adherent at that, but sometimes, _sometimes_ , he wonders why magic had to be so cruel, so malicious.  
  
He wonders how something so wondrous could be dangerous, then laughs at a little at his naivete. He isn’t a youngling with stars in his eyes. He is a man who knew the hills and vales of his soul, the weaknesses and the purity of his mind; what did it matter that his body clenches with desire for the Inquisitor, his fingers yearn to stroke the soft silk of her skin, sate himself with the pleasure afforded by her lithe athleticism?  
  
She is his to worship in all ways holy not profane. She was hand-delivered from death by Andraste herself, protected in the ways of the Fade no one, not even Solas or Cole, could understand. True, her eyes turn to his every evening tide, her presence at his side unremarked beyond a knowing look from Varric or a slight eye roll by Cassandra. He guiltily rejoices in her continuing existence despite every effort expended by demons, rogue mages and Red Templars, a faux god made flesh; he should be uplifted because her living breath proved Thedas wouldn’t know rule beneath a harrowing evil, yet his heart beats because hers still does as well.  
  
Yet.  
  
 _Yet._  
  
His training taught him to stand apart, cool to her advances, because she is Magic. Not just a mage, but a being made of Magic; fire seethes through her, shown in flashes of temper, and curling like a crown above her silvered hair. She is not young in the ways of the world; she’s had lovers before, perhaps even among Templars as she has an uncanny knowledge of his Order for someone outside of it, so it doesn’t make sense why she continues her subtle pursuit of him despite his standoffishness.  
  
He unclenches his fingers from a fist at the thought of other hands sliding across her golden body, lips supping at tender flesh and despairs at his desires.  
  
Fighting against the temptation of Lyrium is easier than keeping himself chaste.  


End file.
